Judges of Ten: Radical Inclusion or Necessary Control?

What Happens When Everyone Has a Voice?

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Parshat Devarim begins Moshe’s farewell address to the people. He knows he will not enter the land with them, so the entire book—his final charge—is a reminder of everything they experienced in the desert, and what they must carry with them into the Promised Land.

And what is the first thing he recalls? Not the giving of the Torah, nor the miracles, nor the battles. But the creation of a judicial system.

Moshe says to the people, “I am not able to carry you on my own,” and so he appoints a hierarchy of leadership: judges over thousands, over hundreds, over fifties—and over tens.

That last category intrigued me. Why would Moshe assign a leader over just ten people?

The Case for Every Voice

My first instinct was to see this as an inspiring model of Jewish communal responsibility. Every voice matters. By providing representation to groups as small as ten, no one would be overlooked. The system ensures that no one gets lost in the crowd.

And to strengthen this reading, Moshe instructs the judges: “You shall hear the small just as you do the great” (Devarim 1:17). Every case must be heard, regardless of size or status, and, say the commentators, they must be heard in the order they arrive. Justice must not only be fair—it must feel fair.

But many commentators point out that this structure wasn’t born from pure idealism. Necessity played a role too. Moshe describes the people as quarrelsome, difficult to lead, and prone to constant complaints. He speaks of their interpersonal conflicts and their habit of second-guessing his leadership.

All the major commentators read verse 1:12—“How can I bear unaided your trouble, and your burden, and your bickering!”—as a rebuke. Rav Shimshon Refael Hirsch notes that the word “טָרְחֲכֶם” (“your trouble”) alludes to the people’s contentious nature: their endless legal disputes, their suspicion of authority, their emotional toll on their leader.

Small group, big responsibility. What does it mean to lead — or be heard — among ten?

Blessing or Burden? Yes.

So which is it? Is this system a model of radical inclusion and justice? Or is it a concession to dysfunction—a sad reflection of a people who couldn’t manage themselves without constant intervention?

The answer, of course, is both.

The Women’s Torah Commentary points out that Moshe says “You are too much for me to carry alone” twice in this very passage. The first time, it’s a blessing: “God has made you as numerous as the stars.” (1:9–10). The second time, it’s a burden: “How can I bear your trouble and your strife?” (1:12).

The people would be heavy either way. Their voices deserved to be heard—and they demanded to be heard. Their sheer numbers and their constant quarreling were both part of the same reality.

This duality is not a contradiction. It reflects a core truth about communal life. When everyone has a voice, everyone also has an opinion. And when everyone has an opinion, disagreement is inevitable. The structure Moshe describes—officers over thousands down to tens—acknowledges both truths: that every voice matters, and that every voice also takes a toll.

Our Modern Dilemma

This isn’t just an ancient leadership dilemma. It’s ours too.

We live in a time when individual voices are more amplified than ever. We are encouraged to speak, to advocate, to express ourselves and to seek justice when we’ve been wronged. That is good—essential, even.

But we’re also witnessing what happens when that system—and the people within it—become overwhelmed. When every frustration becomes a public crisis. When leaders are inundated with complaints. When communities become defined more by tension than by purpose.

The Torah doesn’t resolve this tension by choosing one side. Instead, it offers us a model for how to live in the tension honestly and faithfully.

The Value of the Small Voice

On the one hand, the Torah insists on the value of the small voice.

Moshe appoints judges not only over thousands but over tens. And God responds: “This is good.” Every group, no matter how small, deserves a representative. Judges are told not to fear the powerful or favor the rich. Even a student who sees injustice is required to speak—even in front of a teacher or an elder. As the Talmud in Sanhedrin (6b) teaches, silence in the face of injustice is not piety. It is abdication.

We are meant to have a voice. And we are meant to use it.

But Also, Discernment

On the other hand, the Torah is honest about the emotional and social cost of that model. Moshe is exhausted. His leadership is undermined not just by rebellion, but by the volume of conflict.

This leads to a second insight—just because you can speak, doesn’t mean you should.

This week’s parsha invites us to ask:

• Is this something that truly needs to be said?

• Is this frustration a reflection of real injustice—or just my own anxiety or impatience?

• Will raising this concern help the community—or exhaust it?

• Am I using my voice to build—or to burden?

This is not a call for silence. The Torah never says, “Don’t speak.” But it is a call for discernment. It urges us to weigh not only whether our words are right, but whether they are necessary, timely, and constructive.

Moshe’s model offers space for every concern—by filtering them through appropriate layers of leadership. Not every issue must go to the top. Not every disagreement is a crisis. And some grievances may be best addressed within ourselves.

The Humility to Hear

There is also a message here for leaders and listeners alike: humility.

Moshe says, “Bring the difficult matters to me, and I will hear them” (1:17). He doesn’t say, “I will solve them,” or “I already know.” He says, “I will hear.” If he knows the answer, he will share it. If not, he will go and learn.

This is real leadership. Not omniscience, but openness. Not certainty, but the courage to listen.

One in Ten

So what does all this mean for us today?

It means that healthy community—whether in a synagogue, a workplace, or a family—is not built solely on who speaks loudest. It is built on a shared commitment to hearing all voices, and a shared responsibility to assess whether what we want to say, should be said at all.

We are each one in ten. Worthy of being heard. And also responsible for how we use that privilege.

As we begin the book of Devarim, as Moshe begins his last speech to the people, he does not begin with laws or battles or miracles. He begins with a plea: to listen to one another, to judge fairly, to build just systems—and not to use our voices to weigh each other down.

This week, may we pause before speaking a complaint or critique, and ask:
Will this build or burden?
Will this help or harm?
And if it will harm—must it still be said?

May our voices be strong and our silences wise.

Shabbat Shalom,
Miriam